...When Jim and Edna married and settled into the world of Washington County [in 1914], it already had an almost century-old tradition of interracial marriage that led to a large community of mixed-race people who, though a known presence in the county, lived apart from blacks and whites nestled in their own world and culture. Unlike the rest of Alabama, Washington County, along with Mobile, maintained three separate school systems: one for whites, one for blacks and one for "those of racially mixed heritage."...

...Yet, to most white people in Washington County, and some blacks, Jim and Edna Richardson and their children were neither black nor white; they were just known as "those Richardsons." The couple refused the local custom of designating their children as racially mixed. And in spite of the children's racial designation as white on their birth certificates, they also refused to identify themselves as white in spite of their outward appearance. Instead, the family existed as an entity unto themselves, living as a black family that moved between the black and white worlds, rather than sealing themselves into the boxes that local people wanted to fit them in. Perhaps that stand played a role in denying them a place in local history. Although "those Richardsons" may not be present in the annals of local history, the active oral tradition of the American South has kept their life and times alive among the people...

In case youâ€™ve been living under a six-ton boulder for the last five years, featuring mixed-race couples is the hot new thing in advertising. Itâ€™s edgy! Itâ€™s progressive! Itâ€™s absolutely adorable! Best of all, it is accessible to anyone whoâ€™s willing to test out their new Diversity Strategy™ and choose to see the backlash as free PR: banks, clothing brands, jewellers, mattresses, cereals, you name it. We havenâ€™t stopped at plain old mixed race heteros, lord no. Ever heard of representation? Give me mixed race gays. Add some kids! (Just donâ€™t get into that queer or trans business much because thereâ€™s not a lot of expendable cash in that.) Diversityâ€™s the in-thing! The opportunities are endless.

Our obsession with diversity reveals far more about us than we think. And serves as a convenient distraction to avoid doing any real equity work.

Mixed race relationships are not inherently progressive, radical, or even healthy. That includes queer ones. The mainstream gawks at multiracial people and mixed-race relationships, turning us into superheroes or weirdos, statistical outliers divorced from the historical impacts of colonization and anti-Black racismâ€Šâ€”â€Šparticularly in a Canada so smitten with itself that it has started to believe its own lies about multiculturalism.

It is a gross misunderstanding and a cruel oversimplification of the magnitude and insidiousness of white supremacy (and basic genetics) to think that if we all just fuck each other more or have mixed babies that we will get along better, turn the same shade of beige, and lo, racism will vanish…

Fearing judgment of her interracial relationship and mixed-race child, a woman keeps both from her family. Until she doesnâ€™t.

My son, Roman, turned to me from his book and said, â€śMom, can you throw me a blanket? This is my favorite part in the book and I donâ€™t want to stop.â€ť

When I look at my son, I see myself: the inability to tolerate pain, even from the smallest of physical hurts; the deep fear of the dark, of the deserted street, of that strange insect on the ceiling; and the intense, abiding love of reading.

Most of all, I see myself in his face, the eyes like mine, left slightly larger than right, especially when heâ€™s tired, and the toothy smile that breaks through the most serious situations. All of it: me.

Yet when he and I walk along the street, so many people feel the need to tell me how much he isnâ€™t like me, how incredibly unalike we appear, how he looks just like his father. They say it with such authority.

My son is biracial. His father is Haitian-American and Iâ€™m of Chinese descent; Often, I have to work to prove that my son is mine. On our daily subway commute to school, at least one person will look at me, then at him, and then back again. I am forced to see what they see: His skin is darker and his hair wavy, while Iâ€™m fair, prone to freckling, with hair that wonâ€™t hold a curl. If their eyes happen to meet mine, theyâ€™ll catch me glaring, holding them accountable for what I deem to be their silent judgment…